


Pyrrhic Victories

by Sierra_Butterfly



Series: The Martyrdom Chronicles [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra_Butterfly/pseuds/Sierra_Butterfly
Summary: The Capitol’s tyranny has lasted for a thousand years, but with the introduction of the first ever Double Quell can a broken girl, a tormented Gamemaker, and a traitorous assassin incite rebellion?





	1. Knights of Cydonia [Muse]

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to start off saying that I wrote this back in my Sophomore year of high school (going on five years ago), and despite going through this and seeing all the small writing quirks I had back then, I'm still happy enough with the characters and the overall plot (however dramatic they/it may be). I don't really plan on editing this since my job during the academic year is to help others edit/revise their own papers, and frankly I'm all edited out, but I did want to put this out there and see what others thought...
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys like it. Let me know what you think :)

_The citizens of our capitol crave the blood of the districts’ children. They cheer for it, and some of them even live for it._

_I hate it all, even if I’m among the people living for it--because I don’t have a choice._

_Maybe if I was the son of anyone else in the capitol, then I could get by hating the games._

_But of course that would be too easy. No, instead I am the son of President Edana Eulacias, and if I dared admit that I hate the games, then she would have me killed._

_I doubt she would even hesitate to have me summoned to her office, equally known for business as it was as an execution chamber._

_By now I crave that death, even if I don’t deserve it. –Wyvern Eulacias_

In a daze of sleep deprivation and alcohol I stare at my chicken scrawl, and I know it doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken their treason aloud. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t told anyone how I feel, because the truth in it lingers in the recesses of my mind. In every misstep, my hatred for the games becomes more apparent.

By now I only hope I can kill my mother before she kills me. After that, I will run into death’s embrace gleefully. 

Hell would be better than this.

Because the war has long since been won—the Capitol has reigned for centuries; the districts have lost, succumbing to starvation and tyranny.

But this year the games will involve not only the districts, but those who know too much.

The fortieth quarter quell—first ever double quell—will bring the true protectors of the Capitol to their knees. Those unfortunate individuals who have fought diligently to preserve what they once believed in but no longer can will die with their proteges—the tributes they will train for four weeks.

I know most of the trainers already know—they know each and every one of them will die with the knowledge burned to their memories. I know too that the few who have not discerned this will suffer the most—perhaps at the hands of their own tributes.

Each awful moment of suffering—of demented entertainment for those wretched Capitolites—is a second I am solely responsible for.  
I created this arena, the mutts, and the rules. I have the power to cast any tribute to whatever retribution awaits them—knowing that each life I steal brings condemnation upon me.  
I pray for this condemnation—for the punishment that ends my moment by moment turmoil.

And yet I know I do not deserve it—as by now, in my third year as gamemaker—it would be a blessing.

“Wyvern, open your door!”

In accompaniment to the soprano scream is the hollow percussion of fists raining upon the groaning wood.

With a sigh I sit up, my muscles gliding easily as I crumple the paper in one hand, retrieving the remote to the television in another. “One moment, please,” I call back, discarding my treasonous words in the flames of the near antique fireplace. Clicking off the Capitol talk show I shoot a fleeting glance in the mirror, working to relax the taut muscles around my lips and eyes.

Once content all traces of weary resentment is masked by a charming half-smirk, I go to the door.

Taking a breath to cherish the seconds it takes to unlock the complex system of computer identification locks I swing the door open with a grandeur bow.

“Wyvern, quiescent as always.”

I blink, taking in the flamboyant, orange and pink dress Mother wears. Her face is a collage of colors unnatural to her generally pale pallor—the shade I wear simply without façade. “I would like to think I’m the opposite of quiescent, Mother.” I say quietly so the tension steers clear.

She reaches a plastic hand to pat my cheek, cat-green eyes sympathetic. “Ah, the reason I try to keep you from thinking.”

Biting my cheek I chuckle, glancing behind her earnestly. “Did you need something?” I ask, wiping clammy palms against my water repellant dress pants.

“I simply wished to supply you the trainer list. You will be responsible for naming the remaining twelve trainers, after all. Remember, we aren’t likely to get this chance again.”  
I nod numbly, feeling the knit in my brows as I scan the list, eyes falling on a few names in particular.

Names I recognize. Of people I know.

People I care about.

Enrique Eulacias.

Tora Yuu.

Kerem Naomi.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I murmur, horror making my stomach knot painfully. 

“What’s wrong?” Mother asks, voice turning sickeningly sweet. Only I can see the devilish gleam in her eyes, challenging me.

_You expect me to kill my uncle… my wife…my closest friend._

But I only shake my head, erasing my expression. “Absolutely nothing,” I say, voice alien to my own ears.

I just want to die.

I just want to run from every death I’ve caused; every death I will cause.

I just want to kill the one person whose name is not on this list.

She smiles an angelically before leaving me petrified at my door, craving death.

But first, I will kill her. 

President Eulacias will be gone in two months, and _then_ I will die.


	2. I Must Be Dreaming [Evanescence]

**|Iris Hyacinth|**

_I am blissfully young; my naivety protected even as I stare up at the crackling rage in Papa’s eyes. They are like the hottest part of a flame, flickering with an intensity that rivals a welder’s torch. At one time I wished I had eyes like his but now my heart stutters fearfully as Papa raises a calloused hand, taking a step closer._

_My head snaps back and pain blossoms just beneath my cheekbone. Papa has just hit me, and while my response is appropriate for my age I wish frantically the cry did not escape. “Papa!”_

_The harsh chortle that slithers from his lips is foreign to my ears. It is so unlike the soft lilt of his laughter, a reassuring sound in comparison to this._

_His fingers curl in and this time his punch connects with my eye, causing me to stumble back as the tears plummet down my ruddy cheeks. Hiccuping I fold into myself, instinct and a desire to live overwhelming the terror in my veins. I scream for him to stop, pleading and asking why. Why are you doing this? Why don’t you love me anymore?_

_In retaliation his boot-clad foot strikes my side once, twice. On the third connection I can no longer maintain my little ball and I am sprawled on my back, incoherent with pain, fear, and a sorrow too intense for my small frame to bear. “Papa,” I gasp, searching his face for some remnant of the tender, loving father I have known all my life._

_He smirks down at me, fingers wrapping around my throat, successfully cutting off my access to air. I manage to gasp one more plea before my vision becomes too spotty, my head spinning._

“Hotaru!” 

_In a frail attempt to displace Papa I wriggle beneath him, using my dwindling strength to batter him with my tiny fists and misplaced kicks._

_“Darius! Stop it!” I hear Mama sobbing but her cries seem so far away, as though I am floating in the clouds. “You’re killing her!”_

“Wake up.” 

_Papa is no longer on top of me, but now there are two of him._

_No, that’s not right. Squinting up at the two figures I realize one is shorter. He’s the one pulling Papa off of me. I hear his voice and it reminds me again of Papa’s old laugh; soft and kind, only his words are neither of these. He’s threatening Papa, I realize, and in the moment I scramble to my feet, desperately trying to pull him away from Papa._

_It seems unlikely that I am successful but Papa manages to break away, only instead of being grateful his eyes bore into me. The emotion in his eyes is anything but love, it is the exact opposite. In a smooth movement he has a poker from the fireplace in hand and he’s getting closer. I scream but there are no words, only fear conveyed in my young voice.  
_

“Hotaru!” 

With a choked yelp I jerk forward, chest heaving as I become aware of ice water sliding through my hair, mingling with the perspiration and tears on my cheeks. Fearfully I cast a cursory look around my room, fingers pressed against my sternum where I can feel my own heartbeat. 

As my gasps give way to steadier breaths my gaze lands on the second figure from my nightmare, a man with corkscrew locks of the darkest ebonies. His almond eyes are pools of hazelnut, thick brows hunched together in concern.

“Norio,” I murmur, bringing a shaky hand to feel my left shoulder blade. The burn scar is easy to find; the skin is elevated and if I look in a mirror the white, irregular splotches form the peculiar shape of a dragonfly. For half a moment I allow my eyes to drift shut, hands dropping to my lap as I attempt to swallow the terror the nightmare always invokes. 

“You weren’t waking up,” he says after a moment, drawing my eyes to his again. 

My brows furrow and I frown in spite of the fading red mark on his cheek, prominent in light of his olive skin. Guilt bubbles in my core, settling alongside the phantom of pain as the nightmare retreats to the corners of my mind. 

Ducking my head I slip from the covers, swiping at a wet strand of hair determined to mask my vision. Each movement pulls at the tightness in my calves and back but I welcome the soreness. It means I am alive and it reminds me that I am not that beaten little girl, even if she haunts me at night. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” I say in apology. 

“Did the tea stop working?” he asks, lingering at the outskirts of my room. His back is to me as his fingers skim the oak dresser. 

Absently I pull my knees to my chest, resting my chin on my knee as I watch him. His frame tenses when he picks up the steel-edged picture frame depicting my mother, her cat-eye green stare only a few shades lighter than my own. In the picture she is younger, no more than mid-twenties, and the elegant curve of her lips forms a content smile. It is a photo taken in secret, Norio holding her in his arms as though they were properly married, or at the least eloped despite her marriage to Darius. 

“It never really worked,” I confess, unable to maintain his gaze when he shoots an inquisitive look over his shoulder. “It kept me quiet but the nightmares got worse.” 

He sighs, setting the picture frame down and turning to face me, knuckles white as he grips the edge. “Iris,” he starts, the furrow between his brows deepening. I shift so that I meet his gaze, curious at the sound of my actual name. He hardly ever calls me ‘Iris,’ always ‘Hotaru.’ “You know that Solstice is volunteering this year.” 

I nod, nibbling my bottom lip as I remember the conversation I heard in town. 

_“It’s ridiculous. It’s idiocy.” Esmeralda Douglas whispered as her brows joined her platinum hairline. “The victors dared to eliminate Sergio from volunteering.”_

_“Why?” the dark haired woman placed a slender hand on her wide hip, leaned to one side, and parted her lips as though to speak._

_“He supposedly talked against the Capitol.” She harrumphed, tossing her head. “I think it was the Canchers--two victors in the family of course they swayed the vote!” Esmeralda narrowed her eyes, challenging the other woman who meekly nodded in agreement._

_“And then,” she continued, “Darius Hyacinth’s daughter was approved to volunteer! Fat chance she’ll make it out alive.”_

“You know there’s nothing you can do.” 

His words bite and I wince involuntarily. It is true, though I have given hours of thought to the idea of volunteering in her place. Once the victors decide who is volunteering for the year, anyone that tries to take that tribute’s place disappears. “She can’t walk,” I mumble, playing with the frayed cuff of my sweatpants. “Darius broke her leg.”

“That’s not your fault,” he argues, crossing his arms in an unusual display of opposition. It is then that I realize just how little he wants me to enter the games. 

“Maybe not,” I say in a failed attempt to pacify him. Perhaps if I could stop blaming myself for the abuse Solstice endures then I could stop imagining myself in the games instead. Perhaps if half my nightmares were not of her dying in my arms because I could not save her…

Norio’s stare intensifies and I shift uncomfortably, looking away. The determination in his gaze does not erase the images that come to mind, but it does allow me a moment of reprieve from his anger. “I can’t protect you if you volunteer. You understand what the victors will do.” There is a hard edge to his voice, one I have not heard since that night he pulled Darius away from me, and never directed at me. 

Sighing I slide my feet off the bed and stand to cross the room, reaching into the drawer of my desk. Norio moves to my side, scowling at the rice paper I take out. The edges show it has been torn out of a notebook at some point and the grainy texture is covered extensively with watery, black ink. It is directed to me in the sloppy scrawl of Solstice. 

_Iris,_

_Stop trying to help me. Darius only hurts me more. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. If he kills me, stay away._

The note is abrupt, just as the moment when she shoved the paper at me, her young eyes not yet filled with the hate she now bores into me. Norio’s brow creases and his lips form a grimace. He places the paper on the desk and walks off a few feet, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats and I hear the thin tint of guilt layering his words. “You didn’t ask to be born.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, offering a wistful smile. Arguing with Norio is not something I enjoy, and arguing on reaping day is not something I’m up to. “She’s closer to the stage,” I say when he starts to continue the argument, not pacified by my concession. “I know better than to face the victors anyway.” 

Norio fixes me with a hard stare, doubting the truthfulness of my words. Honestly, I don’t blame him for being doubtful. Logically I know that if I volunteer in Solstice’s place and I’m not the first one on the stage, the victors will find me. I’m just not so certain I know better than to volunteer anyways. The guilt has travelled with me ever since Solstice gave me that paper five years ago, when she was nine and I was thirteen. 

He sighs and faces me. “I just can’t take losing another daughter,” he murmurs defeatedly, causing me to think back to Aarika. She was eighteen when she went into the games, and she had the same training I have from Norio’s extensive skills in combat and stealth. She could have won the games if her fellow careers did not turn on her, cutting her down in cold blood because she disagreed with killing a young child. 

It always shocks me when Norio considers me a daughter; it always sends a wave of warmth despite my inability to call him my father. It makes me wish he is the only father I ever knew, even when he is my blood father and the man who has raised me. The taint of that term will always carry with me, and for that reason alone I continue to call him by name. “You aren’t going to lose me,” I tell him. 

He smiles ruefully and once again I get the impression he does not believe me, that he will not believe me no matter what I say. That does not make what I say next any easier, it only makes it harder: he knows me well enough to know I am consumed by guilt, and I will act by my guilt. “The reapings are in a couple hours, I should get ready.” 

With my room to myself I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar vanilla scent of the room, committing the only characteristic aspect of it to memory. I don’t care to remember the dust-cloaked furniture and walls; I don’t want to remember the note tucked safely in the desk drawer. This room does not hold fond memories; it is simply where I sleep, where my nightmares haunt me, and where I recovered all those years ago. 

When I open my eyes I set about getting ready, crossing the floorboards to the adjoined bathroom and turning the shower head on hot. I discard my clothes by the sink and allow the warmth to envelope me, slowly chasing away the soreness rooted deep in my muscles. Washing my hair I idly watch the foamy, vanilla soap travel down my arms. It is an off-white shade but my mind turns it crimson, the bubbles no longer safe but scorching, like hot blood. 

Hyperventilation takes over as I sink to my knees, the water blinding me as the tears and sob wheeze in my chest. _It’s not real,_ I think earnestly, sucking in a deeper breath and releasing it through my lips. _It’s not real. It’s not real._

Shutting off the water I sink back to my knees and allow the fear to flee gradually as I contemplate safer topics. Running; I think about running after the reapings. I think about training, about this being my last year in the reapings. 

Eventually I am able to stand and I dress myself hurriedly in a simple, celadon-green dress, tossing on shoes and throwing my hair in a loose ponytail. Offering a brief glance in the mirror I study the crescents beneath my eyes; their prominence is accentuated by the light, olive tone of my skin, my deep set eyes are bloodshot. 

With a mild shake of the head I walk out of the room, descending the honey-oak stairs to the kitchen where I find Norio with breakfast already fixed. He sets a plate on the table for me and I thank him, sitting down across from him. We eat breakfast in silence and I have to bite my tongue not to apologize to him; to try and explain why I feel like I should take Solstice’s place. 

“Half an hour,” he mumbles, gathering his feet beneath him before he’s done with his food. “You should probably head out soon.” 

I know he’s right but I still sit at the table when he leaves the room, finishing my food in a few quick bites before I discard the plate in the sink. Guilt gnaws at my stomach as I recognize the resignation in his behavior, but the guilt only intensifies when I consider letting Solstice enter the games. That’s how I know what I must do; by the balancing act of my guilt as I try desperately not to succumb entirely to it. Staying safe will be my downfall, but entering the games will likely kill me. 

Not allowing myself another moment to consider my decision I leave the little home I have lived in most of my life, the miniature dust tornadoes swirling around my feet with each step.

***

The humidity stamps small beads of sweat on bare skin, and even District Two’s host, Antonia, is unable to escape the humiliating perspiration. She flutters about, tittering about the excruciating heat and how she wishes to escape the premises immediately.

If my thoughts were not heavy today I would have snickered at the display, but instead I simply isolate myself amongst the other eighteen year olds, considering the chestnut-haired girl in the fourteen year olds’ section. Her back is to me but I can see she’s wearing an elegantly formed, violet dress that, in my opinion, clings to her young frame too much. As though she can feel my gaze she turns, her own, sky-blue eyes glaring into mine. She has the eyes of Darius, only hers openly display her hatred while his conceal it with a thin veil of merriment. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Antonia says into the microphone, her lavender skin and impossibly bright green eyes offsetting her completely from the white-clad peacekeepers and the mayor who has already delivered his speech. “We present to you our first ever Double Quell,” her enthusiasm is reciprocated by some, but as the annual documentary on how the games started most subside into boredom. 

I tear my gaze from Solstice and stare fixedly at the screen, not really seeing the poor quality of the clip. The fire and violence does not register, and it is only when Antonia begins speaking again that I fully comprehend that this is my last chance to back out. Each time her heels click against the stage my heart thuds against my sternum. 

Her slender fingers dip into the bowl and removes a slip of paper and it is all too soon that she is back at the microphone, reading aloud the name.   
Immediately my eyes find Norio’s in the crowds and I see he is mouthing ‘no’ to me, shaking his head. He could have been shouting but I would not have heard it. 

“Solstice Hyacinth.” 

I find the dark-haired girl again, watching as she hobbles out of her section. A girl extends a foot and trips her, leaving Solstice sprawled on the ground, glaring murderously at her offender. 

The peacekeepers swarm Solstice, pulling her to her feet despite her bitter protests that she can stand herself. A peacekeeper stationed near my section mutters under her breath and I can just make out what she says. “What were they thinking?” 

She scans my section as though wishing someone would take the chance to volunteer and our eyes meet. I am already moving, anticipating her attempt to stop me. It is one reason the local peacekeepers are stationed outside each section: to prevent unapproved volunteers. She makes a show of trying to catch me but it is evident her attempts are half hearted, and anyways, the holler torn from my lungs disproves her feeble efforts. 

I am this year’s tribute. I am entering the games. 

As the peacekeepers escort me by Solstice who is still in the middle of the walkway I find I am unable to look anywhere but her hate filled eyes. In the moment she looks so completely like a rabid animal that I don’t know what to expect. 

And then she lunges, deadly in spite of her damaged leg as she tears a peacekeeper from the circle, giving her a clear aim to my throat. She doesn’t waste any time before her fingers press hard into my neck, effectively cutting off my oxygen. 

“He’ll kill me,” she murmurs fervently as I simply stand there, shell-shocked by her words. “Don’t you understand?” she screeches, and for a moment I think even the peacekeepers are too stunned to move as the words escape her lips again. “He’ll kill me!” 

A burly arm wraps around her waist as the man pulls her away from me. I feel her nails bite into the tender skin but I don’t properly notice it yet. “No,” I say quietly, shoving away one of the peacekeepers when they start to propel me forward again. 

“You can’t protect me,” she screams, writhing as the man holds her tight into his chest, arms behind her in a hold I know must be painful. Pain does not register in her eyes though, only hatred and fear. 

A second peacekeeper detaches from the little circle around me, fingers deftly tilting her head and plunging the tip of a needle into her skin, filling her veins with the pale yellow serum: a sedative. Her body goes limp and the man is nearly carrying her, and yet her eyes do not leave mine. Instead those haunting orbs become child-like, her desperate desire for solace from her abuser like a whip cutting through the flesh, muscle, and bone. Cutting straight to my heart as that stare rips me to shreds. “Kill me,” she pleads softly. “Please, Iris, just kill me.” 

A man appears on either side of me, gloved fingers biting deep into the crease of my elbows as they tug me along, gruffly commanding I go. “I can’t,” I say, blinking away the tears as the unnamed man carries her away. Her eyes are closed now but that look will never escape my mind. Those wretched words will always play in the back of my mind. 

As my feet mechanically ascend the stage, a new emotion borne in my center. It is raw, hot and cold at the same time, and it drives me to look out upon the crowds. 

“What’s your name, hun?” Antonia whispers, eyeing me skeptically as I refuse to speak, earnestly scanning the crowd of parents and loved ones just outside the sections. He will be closer to the front, I think, but even I do not expect to see him within a hundred yards of the stage. Nonetheless I meet his ragged stare, noting the few differences since I have last seen him. 

His dark hair is now streaked with grey and the hollows in his cheeks are more pronounced with age. Perhaps his lips are paler, or perhaps that is simply the contrast to his crimson cheeks, anger causing the flush to spread beneath his skin. One thing is absolutely the same: he wants me dead. 

Antonia places cool fingers on my arm, cautioning me, or maybe she is just impatient to get out of the heat still. I do not care as I raise a shaky finger, pointing at Darius for half a moment. My heart stutters even as the challenge touches the air. “I dare you to come see me,” I say, tone foreign to my own ears. 

District Two is cloaked in silence; a rare display of shock as I turn my eyes to them, silently condemning them just as I now condemn myself for allowing Darius to beat her. Each face is painted with surprise; eyes are widened and mouths are agape. I want to scream at them, _Protect her! Don’t let him kill her!_ Instead I swallow my rage and announce my name, stepping back where Antonia designates. 

The Cancher boy volunteers almost immediately and makes a show of arrogance, eagerly running to the stage as he takes up his position across from me. Antonia blushes at the charismatic smirk he offers her and tells us to shake hands. It’s in the brief flash of wariness when our palms connect that I recognize the falseness of his demeanor. He squeezes my hand too tightly in a weak display of dominance and as we are guided back to the the visitation rooms he shoots a poorly aimed elbow at my side. 

When the peacekeeper directs me to a steel door I take a breath, releasing it slowly as I step in, embracing the cool rush of air as I fully escape the humidity outside. I barely have time to notice the room before his voice invades my hearing. 

His face is no longer a beet red, but instead it has returned to his typically pale pallor, his eyes sparking like a newly started fire. His insults bounce off me harmlessly as I study instead the thin tremble of his arms, his self-control wavering each moment I remain silent. In a little under a minute he has exhausted his supply of obscenities, leaving himself breathless from shouting. 

“Are you done?” I ask, instigating the lunge for my neck much as Solstice did no more than ten minutes earlier. His technique is sloppy as he relies entirely upon his rage and I duck, snapping my elbow into his ribcage. In the same moment I sweep his legs from beneath him, my strength stemming from pent up anger and burning guilt. My fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket and I press him against the wall, forearm against his neck though I do not apply much pressure. I have no desire to reciprocate that dreadful night, even if I am the attacker now. 

Darius snarls, thrashing against me uselessly as I lean in as much as I dare to. I do not cut off his breathing as I want to hear his response. I want his word that he will not touch Solstice, even if I cannot trust it. “You’re going to leave Solstice alone,” I tell him, deadly calm. “If I ever find out that you hurt her again I will come back and kill you.” 

He laughs bitterly, trying again to shove me away. “You’ll die in the bloodbath,” he growls, his breath putrid in our proximity. 

“Say it,” I snap, duly aware a cool hand rests on my shoulder. I’m not sure how much time I have left but I want to--need to--hear him say it. “Say you’ll leave her alone.” 

The man scoffs, bucking against me again. This time I do release him, taking a step back as he straightens his clothing, the ferocity in his glare turning to grim amusement. “I’ll do whatever I want to my daughter,” he spats. “And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, Iris, ‘cause you’re gonna die.” His smile is elusive, his arrogance sapped when there is a click behind me, the sound of metal connecting with metal. I recognize it as the sound of a handgun but I cannot afford to see who it is aimed at. 

“Then I’ll see you in Hell,” I murmur as the door opens and Darius is pulled away, maintaining what little dignity he has as he escapes the premises. 

I have a moment of reprieve that I take to see the second figure in the room, the woman that stood outside my section. She offers a remorseful smile as she replaces the weapon at her hip, retreating to her corner of the room. Never before have I heard of a peacekeeper being stationed in the visitation room, but then, it is not every year that drama like today’s unfurls. 

Absently I wonder what the District has made of me, calling out my abuser as well as Solstice’s. I wonder what the victors make of it. 

“Hotaru.” 

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, finding comfort as his arms wrap around me. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, squeezing my eyes shut to lock the tears away. “She would’ve died, but now Darius,” he pulls back enough so he can reach in his jacket pocket, pulling out a thick envelope. He presses it into my hand with a mild shake of the head. 

“It’s okay,” he tells me, glancing surreptitiously at the peacekeeper before he pitches his voice lower. “Read that later,” he tells me, emotion leaking into his tone as I meet his tear filled gaze. “It’s okay,” he repeats, embracing me again. 

“You’re going to come back,” he says when our time is almost up. Each second feels like a hook tearing into my skin and pulling me every direction. We can both feel it; the time dwindling down to a few final moments. “I won’t let him hurt her,” he promises, and I wish I could find the words to convey my gratitude. Not just for that promise but for everything. Every moment he’s been a father to me. 

The peacekeepers are at the door, telling Norio his time is up, and he sighs, knowing better than to resist. “I love you, Hotaru,” he says, offering a small smile. 

“I love you, Dad.” I do not hesitate this once, and even as the word feels odd on my tongue I manage to return his smile. The door closes and I deflate, sinking into the nearest chair as I run a hand through my hair. Weariness tugs at my limbs and it takes more effort than it should to glance up at the peacekeeper. 

Her gaze has never left my frame and now I return the scrutiny, arching an inquisitive brow when I realize her eyes are not on mine but fixated on my neck. Tentatively I press my fingers there and realize Solstice drew blood. The warmth is sticky and I frown, idly studying the scarlet on the pads of my fingers. 

“You’ll want to clean that when you get on the train,” she cautions and we both look up when the door opens again. Wearily I wonder if it is another visitor, but instead it is another peacekeeper ready to take to me to the train. He is curt and gruff as he places his hand at the small of my back, pushing me forward as I join Antonia and the Cancher boy. 

Our trek to the train is brief and despite Antonia’s beseechment that I wait until after dinner I seek the isolation of my room anyways, barely noticing the extravagance as I collapse into a mercifully dreamless sleep.


End file.
